


Halloween Special: Witch in the Wood

by retrowavesasquatch



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Demon Sex, Dubious Consent, Memory Loss, Nonbinary Character, Original Character(s), Other, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:49:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26996983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retrowavesasquatch/pseuds/retrowavesasquatch
Summary: A continuation of Corvid's experience with a strange entity.
Kudos: 3





	Halloween Special: Witch in the Wood

“ _ I need to see you again, babydoll _ .”

Corvid rolls their eyes toward the ceiling. They kick the blankets off and sit up with a grunt, “you want me that bad?”

“ _ You know it _ .” 

Of course they do. Ever since they caught him in a lie, made him blush and fumble for an excuse, he’s wanted them. He’d liked it. He liked the shame of being caught. Corvid is his dirty secret. One that could absolutely ruin his family if he gets found out. It leaves them wondering if that’s what he’s hoping will happen, and Corvid knows just how the whore in those scenarios will get treated. It’ll be high school all over again, except they can’t afford to leave town this time.

“Uh huh,” they mumble past the cigarette they place between their lips. For a moment they listen to John’s breathing. It meant he’s calling from the landline. Idiot. 

Lighting the cigarette, they inhale and breathe twin plumes of clove scented smoke from their nostrils. They watch it curl up towards the ceiling and get whisked away by the ceiling fan. “Where do you wanna do it, then?”

“ _ It’s a pretty night. How about we ride up to Turkey Trail _ ?”

“I’ll meet you there.”

Corvid ends the call before he can argue. He knew better than to ask that. They’ve half a mind to let him go all the way out there and sit alone, but the fridge is getting a bit bare. Between groceries and the box of patches they still need to pick up at the CVS, they could either get out or be choosing between one or the other: Food or hormones. Both would be better.

With a sigh, they grab a bra and flannel from the closet. They don’t have to dress up for him. They don’t want to. The jeans are tossed back on top of the dresser. Corvid stubs the cigarette out, and then grabs a pair of sweatpants off the back of the desk chair. If they’re going to be stuck out in the boonies for half an hour or so, then they’re going to be comfortable.

It’s not a long drive for them. Turkey Trail is just past the main strip near campus. It’s far enough back that it’s not popular with the students, since you have to take a winding road through a residential area to get to it. 

At the stoplight, they text Marla that they’re seeing John. Someone needs to know, and Marla had drawn the short straw, being the only one who knew Corvid’s phone number outside of family. She doesn’t respond, but they don’t expect her to at this time of night. It just makes them feel better knowing someone will have a general idea of where to look in case something happens.

Crawling through Main Street at 25 mph, Corvid contemplates grabbing something to eat first. They drive past the Checkers, and then the McDonalds. As much as they’d like to force John to wait, it is very late and they’re short on cash. The change that rattles in the cup holder could probably get them a thing of fries though. Maybe on the way back, they decide. It’ll get the taste out of their mouth.

Out past the sign marking the trail and the date it was established, Corvid slows down. They lean forward to get a look at the parking lot as they reach a gap in the trees. Beneath grungy yellow lights are two vehicles on opposite ends of the lot: A Subaru Forester, and what looks sort of like an older model Bronco. Corvid almost drives past, but the prospect of a good payout is too good to pass up. 

They park next to John’s Forester, close enough that he’d have to climb out of the passenger side to get out. As they pull the parking brake, they look over and see that the driver’s seat is empty. Corvid grumbles to themselves as they get out to see if he’s in the back. He isn’t. It’s empty, and the hood is only slightly warm.

Weird, they think. It’d taken them about twenty minutes to get here after hanging up. Unless John jumped in his car the second he got off the phone and got real lucky with the stoplights, he should’ve gotten here at the same time. 

His family lived out near Banner Elk, in the rich neighborhood. That meant he’d have to not only go through town, but also go through Blowing Rock and Pine Hollow. That’s a lot of lights, a lot of stop signs, and a lot of 35 and under. John’s a fool, but a traffic law abiding fool.

Maybe he did call from a cell. The number is a local area code, and they didn’t know his home phone number. They’d just assumed a landline with how little noise filtering his end had. It could’ve been a cheap burner this time. Still, where the fuck is he?

Corvid looks across the lot to the bathrooms. There, the other truck is parked, and just as empty as John’s. It’s a Scout, they can now see, and clearly taken care of. The thing looks brand new. Dad had one up until they and Atz were in middle school. He’d regretted selling it to get that piece of shit Explorer. 

Keeping a hand in their pocket, gripping their phone tight, they walk towards the bathrooms. As they pass the Scout, Corvid looks in through the driver’s window. It’s just as nice inside. A pack of Marlboro’s sits on the dash, and some dirty work gloves are on the floor of the passenger side. It’s weird not seeing trash. No receipts, no empty fast food bags, no spare change rattling in cup holders. Even John, who was a neat freak, usually had a back seat littered with toys, wrappers, and the occasional Kleenex.

Stepping into the men’s room always leaves them on edge. They keep the flannel pulled tight around them, and their arms folded, hoping the thick fabric would hide the shape of their breasts.

It’s empty. Corvid leans down to check for feet beneath the two stalls. Pushing open the first with their foot, Corvid wrinkles their nose and moves to the handicap stall. This one is in better shape, though the walls are covered in Sharpie and pen. It looks like someone tried to drill a glory hole but gave up halfway through. Or they got caught.

John, you piece of shit. They pull out their phone to call him when the door opens. Corvid’s heart leaps into their throat, and they quickly lock the stall door. They step over to stand in front of the toilet to make it seem like they’re just using the bathroom.

Heavy footsteps walk across the tile. They hear the rustle of clothes and the sound of a zipper. While the stranger is taking a piss, Corvid takes the chance to lean down to try and see the shoes. They were worn work boots with red clay still caked around them. It’s nothing like John wears, and several sizes larger.

Holding their phone to their chest, Corvid waits, unsure whether they’re about to get the foot tap. The urinal flushes. They listen as the guy washes his hands, and then pats them on his jeans rather than use the dryer. The door creaks open and the sound of footsteps fades as it shuts.

Not wanting to leave too soon and run into the guy, Corvid checks their texts. Their message to Marla still has “delivered” beneath it. They send one more, letting her know they aren’t alone at Turkey Trail, and describe the Scout. A truck like that is pretty distinct.

Slowly, they leave the stall, checking around the corner in case the stranger is waiting. Corvid chides themselves for being so paranoid. Sure, shit like this happens, but in Pine Hollow? The worst thing that’s happened since they moved here was a meth lab explosion down past the laundromat.

Corvid nearly drops their phone when it starts ringing. “Fucking God… hello?”

“ _ Hey babydoll- _ “

“John, what the fuck are you playing at?”

“ _ I can see you. _ ” He chuckles in that deep sexy way, but it just leaves Corvid more aggravated with him. _ “Come up the trail, sweet thing _ .”

“I didn’t agree to a hiking trip.”

“ _ It’s a nice night _ .” Before they can argue, he adds: “ _ I’ll make it worth your time. I promise _ ,” and ends the call.

Corvid looks at the trailhead with no small amount of apprehension. Beyond the light pole, it’s just a black maw. “It better be fucking worth it,” they mumble. If he tries to pull any shit, they’ll just show up at the Wells Fargo where his wife works on Monday morning.

If you’re alive on Monday. Corvid shakes the thought away. John isn’t the type. He’s squeamish as all hell. To the point where he’d once called Corvid to take his kid to the immediate care for him. His wife had been out of town for work. The girl had been chasing her head and caught up to it against the sliding glass door. Busted her lip right open. The ride had been awkward, but John had paid them the same rate for a full service suck and fuck.

Using their phone’s flashlight, they trudge their way along the trail. It forks, and one path winds up to overlook the parking lot. That has to be where John is, if he claims to have seen them. The other path leads down towards a creek and connects to the main path after about two miles.

Walking along reminds them of just how much they miss having time to hike. Having the energy to hike. Their hips and lower back, however, are already letting them that tomorrow they’ll be as good as useless. At least they didn’t have any appointments in the morning.

Corvid thinks about anything other than the pitch black forest, or the empty Scout in the lot. Where could red clay boots have gone? They look over their shoulder, back the way they came. Maybe he went down the other path. Maybe he’s up ahead waiting for them.

What am I even doing here? 

They stop. Corvid listens for the usual sounds of crickets, and maybe the stray call of an owl, but hears nothing beyond their own breathing. Had it been this quiet the whole time?

Their feet throb in the flat Gola sneakers they’d thrown on. Below, they can see the lights from the parking lot through the trees. Corvid shines their flashlight around the trail, seeing nothing but trees, rocks, leaves, and pine straw. Calling out for John would be stupid, especially if that other guy was around.

Fuck it. This was a bad idea. No amount is worth this. John can just take whatever he was planning on paying them and shove it. They can skip a month of hormones. It won’t be that bad. They’ll just have to deal with having less energy than usual and mood swings. Maybe some night sweats and anxiety attacks at the worst.

As they turn around, a twig snaps as loud as a gunshot. Corvid sweeps the light, but sees nothing. They were expecting a human, but the likelihood of it being a bear or maybe a wolf is just as high. It could be the Devil Ape, they think morbidly. Part of them didn’t believe all the sightings, but folks were seeing something big out in the woods.

Big ol’Devil Ape coming to carry you off to be his forest bride. 

As silly as the idea is, it leaves them on edge. Every thought makes the darkness more oppressive, and the overhanging branches all the more ominous. The silence pounds in their ears in time with their heart. They’ll just turn around and walk back to the truck. It’s not that far.

Feeling guilty about leaving John doesn’t even cross their mind. He’s an upper middle class man. He’ll be fine. 

Rounding the first turn, Corvid’s skin begins to prickle. It’s chilly, but it’s not the cold that’s causing the goose pimples to spread over their arms and raise the hair on the back of their neck. Someone is keeping pace, matching their steps. 

They should turn around, shine the light in the stalker’s face and then make a run for it. Corvid can sprint well enough, but with how tired they were already, how long could they keep it up? Is it John behind them? The guy from the bathroom? An animal? Part of them doesn’t want to know or see, but they have to. It’s what you’re supposed to do, especially if it’s an animal. 

The trail is empty. Other than their own shoe prints, rocks, roots, and dead leaves, there’s no sign of anyone else.

Then the flashlight goes out. Corvid looks at their phone and presses the home button. The battery’s dead. “Fuck,” the whisper in the darkness. They can barely make out the trail but for the trees lining it. From here they can’t see the parking lot lights, and they won’t until they go down a ways and reach the fork. Or go back up. Corvid doesn’t like either option, but going back up to try and slide down the steep rise would be stupid. It would be quicker though, they know, but the risk of slipping and busting their head open on rocks is enough to keep them moving down the trail.

It’s slow going. They have to feel their way along to avoid tripping on rocks and roots. Twice Corvid stops to listen. It has to be them just hearing their own footsteps amplified by the quiet. Still, it feels like they’re being stalked by someone or something. 

The sensation of being watched in the darkness is ever-present. Worse and worse scenarios begin to play out, crowding out the frustration with John until it’s shoved out of their mind. 

It never lessens the further down the trail they go. The darkness surrounds them, swallowing them. They’re just a tiny thing in a big forest on a bigger mountain. This is the very reason they’ve never told Atz what they do on the side. Mostly because he’d tell mom, and then they’d have to deal with the guilt trip of doing something dangerous, illegal and beneath someone so well educated. 

While they feel their way down the natural stairs, Corvid’s foot gets caught on a root. They throw their arms out blindly and hit palms first. Pain rockets up their hands to their shoulders. Sitting up, they hold their hands to their chest, clenching and unclenching their fists to see if anything is broken. It hurts, but they can still move all their fingers and rotate their wrists. They feel for their phone and remember, as they take it from their pocket, that it’s dead.

Fuck John. Fuck him. Fuck his whole god damned family. 

And fuck me. Corvid takes a shaky breath, fighting back tears. Fuck me for being so stupid.

Hot air tickles their neck close to their ear. Their name is whispered, and before Corvid can so much as gasp, their wrists are yanked up with enough force that they hear the joints pop. Only a faint “oh” escapes when they open their mouth to scream. Their feet scrape the dirt as whatever it is lifts them high.

Their thighs sting when their sweatpants are yanked away. It burns white hot and itches like a cat scratch. Corvid lands on their knees and falls forward. Stars burst in the darkness as the pain radiates from their knees and up their thighs.

No. No. This isn’t happening. This doesn’t happen around here. Corvid wants to cry out, to scream, but their throat feels tight. It feels like they’re choking, yet they can breathe fine. Of course it can happen here. It happens everywhere because people are everywhere.

The statistics are against Corvid, and they know it. Hell, they spent a semester writing a research proposal about it. They’re in the 1 in 3 chance category. The category most cops wouldn’t even bother investigating if it’s too much effort. They don’t want to be a statistic. They don’t want to be a grainy photograph in the Pine Hollow Hollerer. They don’t want a fucking Facebook memorial page.

Corvid kicks out. Their heel strikes a root and dirt showers down on them. They fling a handful of it as they scramble backward. In the dark, they forgot where on the trail they were. Their hand finds nothing but emptiness, and before they could stop themselves, Corvid tumbles down the last two root and earth steps. 

Gasping like a fish, Corvid struggles to fill their lungs. With sparks of light dancing in their vision, they roll onto their stomach. 

They try to crawl forward but something yanks them back by the hair. The pain is blinding, and they’re only vaguely aware of the vice grip on their wrists. The cold air makes them shiver as their flannel is pulled open. It finds every exposed piece of them, and Corvid can’t tell if it’s the wind or hands that caress them.

The darkness takes on a red tinge, and Corvid feels like they’re floating. The pain is a background murmur, secondary to the cold that numbs the flesh. They’re there and not. Both inside and outside.

Sounds are distorted, amplified yet muffled all at once. Ragged breaths against their ear puff hair into their face and tickles their cold nose. For a fleeting moment, they think they hear their name groaned out. A hand squeezes their breast, yet two hold their wrists outstretched. Fingers move down their front and slip between their lips. It should hurt. They know something is in them, they feel the tug on their wrists, and scrape of their knees against the dirt as their body jerks with the impact of rough thrusts. Perhaps it does hurt.

They regret not stopping at Checkers. If only they’d gone with their instinct. They should’ve ignored the call, rolled over, and went back to sleep. They’d be back at home, in bed, to wake up to another day where they had to choose if they should skip breakfast to make the apples last a bit longer. 

I just want to go home. It’s the only thought that remains clear in the haze.

A piercing, warbling shriek makes their ears ring. Through the tinny buzzing something big barks. It sounds off. It’s not a dog. The grip on their wrist vanishes with it. Their skin tingles with static, prickling like a tube TV that’d just been turned on.

When Corvid’s face hits the dirt they sit up with a gasp. Their arms ached from being pulled over their head, and their skin burns from the cold. Something hot and wet oozes between their legs, rapidly cooling against their inner thigh. They are kneeling in what feels like a puddle.

A dark shape moves in front of them, huge, and inhuman. Corvid screams when it takes a step towards them and flails out to try and keep it away.

“Whoa, whoa! Hey, I’m just trying to help you.” The voice is human, and the dark has a less monstrous shape. It kneels down, and Corvid can make out the faint shape of a trucker hat. 

Light then blinds them, and they blink to see a man. “Remember me? I’m Ronnie. From the Ingles?”

Corvid looks at him, at his dark eyes and heavy mustache. Then the voice clicks: “ _ I was just wonder’n how you managed to style that little scum stache _ .” The man from the farmers market, who’d made his friends laugh after they caught him staring at them. He’d apologized in the canned goods aisle a week afterward. Corvid remembers how he’d blushed and stumbled over his words when he’d said: “I didn’t mean any of it.”

“What happened?”

The question is jarring. Had they tripped? When they try to think about how they got here they draw a blank. “I- I don’t remember.” Corvid looks around them, seeing their sweatpants and underwear laying up near the top of the stairs. Then they look down. Their thighs are marked with long scratches, and they’re sitting in a puddle of something white, thick, and mucusy. The milky looking slime is laced through with bright red blood.

Corvid tries to kick away from it, crying out as the man loses his balance and falls backward. They cough and spit a glob of white onto the dirt. The sight of it turns their stomach, and they vomit. More of the thick white substance coats the ground and their hands as they retch on all fours.

Ronnie helps them up when they finish. Their legs feel like jelly, and as much as they want to fight, they don’t have the strength to do so. They let him pick them up, and lean against his shoulder. His jacket smells like cigarettes and freshly chopped wood. “I live just down the road,” he tells them as he walks. He talks about how he likes coming here after dark when no one else is using the trails. “Too many folks let their dogs off the leash. I’m uh, a bit nervous around em.” He says with a sheepish chuckle.

When he lapses into silence, Corvid finds themselves wishing he’d talk more. 

He carries them into the lot. Their truck is parked four spaces away from his. “You shouldn’t be driving in the state you’re in.” He sits them on the passenger seat in the Scout. Corvid protests at first, not wanting to ruin the upholstery. He waves them off, “I ain’t worried about that.” He takes their sweatpants, which he’d thrown over his shoulder, and helps them into them.

“You might be needing a new phone,” he says as he hands it to them. The screen is a web of cracked glass. They stare at it in their open hand. The skin of their palm is streaked with dirt, blood, and some of that sticky white fluid. Ronnie’s jacket is smeared with it.

Corvid doesn’t want to go to the hospital. “Are you sure?” He asks, his phone out and ready to call an ambulance.

“I don’t have insurance. Rent’s due soon, a-and-” their voice catches with a sob. Everything hurts.

He gives them a look but puts the phone back in his jacket pocket. “Alright then. Tell me what you need.”

All Corvid wants is to go home. Ronnie asks if there’s anything they need to get out of their truck. “This ain’t the type of place where break-ins are a problem, but you never know.” When they shake their head, he says: “I can come pick you up in the morning, and we’ll get your truck. Sound good?”

“Could you stay with me?”

Corvid knows it’s a terrible idea. The man’s a stranger. However, there’s just something about him that makes them feel safe. They don’t know if it’s how easy he talks, or the genuine concern in his eyes. Whatever it is, they want to keep feeling that. They don’t want to be alone in their shop with all the creaks and groans.

When Ronnie agrees, they feel like they can finally rest. Corvid doesn’t remember if he helped them all the way in, or if they shut the door themselves. The next thing they know is they’re being gently shaken awake at a stoplight on Main Street. The Checkers sign is as bright as the sun. “I need to know where you live, darlin’.”

“The Psychic Shop across from the Dairy Queen. You know where that is?”

“I know where the Dairy Queen is.”

The lights swim, and their eyelids are heavy. Knowing Ronnie is next to them, they don’t fight it.


End file.
